Pam Wynn is a student at the United Theological Seminary of the Twin Cities. Her poetry reflects her acute awareness of all that is spiritual in the world, including both the inner and the outer life.  Wynn draws many of her poetic images from her childhood, especially from the Bible—the King James Version, from which she was read while living with her family in North Carolina .  Now, of course, her interpretations of the scriptures differ significantly from those of her childhood.  Says Wynn, “I don’t necessarily set out to write poems that address spiritual issues, God simply shows up.”

There were few books in Wynn’s childhood home—just the Bible and a set of Golden Book Encyclopedias, which she used to build (literally) architectural creations of houses, barns, and other buildings on her mother’s bedroom floor.  Wynn believes that her predisposition to play with words probably came from her father, an early riser, who often wandered about the house singing nursery rhymes, nonsensical songs, and rhymes.

You can count on this author to challenge your assumptions about our American culture and especially about the treatment of persons struggling with homelessness and/or mental illness. The many social justice challenges that we face as a culture have also challenged her in her spiritual life as a poet.  However, Wynn is quick to remind us that in addition to the challenges, there is undeniable beauty.  She frequently quotes the late Jane Kenyon, who suffered from cyclical depression.  Kenyon said this about her pain and suffering: “There are things in life that we must endure which are all but unendurable, and yet I feel that there is a great goodness.  Why, when there could have been nothing, is there something?  This is a great mystery.  How, when there could have been nothing, does it happen that there is love, kindness, beauty?”  In her poetry, Wynn seeks to explore that mystery. Consider the following poem by Wynn:

Jairus’s Daughter

It’s my job.  Each night I say, “Yes, there
is room” or “No, there’s none,” then close the shelter
door and turn the key.  Tonight, the sky,
a thin layer of blue tissue paper,
spreads out, empty of moon and stars.
A girl whisks past across the threshold with
her chin tucked down into her chest, further
than I think humanly possible.  Eighteen,
nineteen, jaw clenched, lips tight, she chooses
a spot upon the floor farthest from the door.
Later, her hair, now brushed into long even
strands, fans across the pillow.  She sleeps on
a mat wrapped in sheets with swirls of yellow
flowers.  Tattooed on her left cheek a small
dusky rose, and on her upper arm
two writhing snakes who watch over her.
Her lids flutter—a small sick bird—
perhaps that dream in which a Savior takes
the girl’s hand, says Awake child, get up,
and everyone rushes into the room
rejoicing, and gives her something to eat.

Note:  In Luke 8:40-56, Jesus raises Jairus’s daughter from the dead.